"Mortal! the loftiest attributes of men,
Reason and Knowledge, only thus contemn,
Still let the Prince of Lies, without control,
With shows, and mocking charms delude thy soul."
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The Breaching Festival is traditionally held on the last Sunday of the month of Desnus, when spring is in full bloom. Korvosa has been abuzz for the whole week leading up to the competition. People gossip about the potential contestants, the dangers they are about to face, and re-air most of the old rumours that surround the Acadamae. As is the case with most festivals, the celebrations do not end at the grounds: all of the local inns and taverns from high-scale hotels and restaurants to dockside watering holes are looking forward to the occasion, and have readied special devil-themed drinks and decorations to attract locals and tourists alike. As it becomes clear that the ailing King Eodred II is fast succumbing to the so-called curse of the Crimson Throne—soon to be one more in a line of monarchs to die without producing an heir—there is plenty of anxiety in regards to the royal succession. A distraction might be just what the city needs.
On the Starday before the festival, each of you receives a peculiar invitation...
Bishop Ornher Reebs has been nothing but accommodating during your stay. Maybe the sly weasel sees this as an opportunity to garner favour with someone from the High Church, or perhaps he fears your arrival heralds a Chelish inquisition. Be that as it may, the guest chambers—nestled deep in the marble bowels of the star-shaped temple—are small, but comfortable enough. While the faith of Asmodeus has yet to reach the minds and souls of most Korvosans, Queen Domina's sanctuary is a suitably grand, if woefully under-visited, monument to the Lord of Hell's might.
During your morning prayers, you catch a whiff of brimstone. Upon raising your eyes from the private shrine, you are met with a barbed devil, bowed deeply in a gesture of unequivocal subservience. Held gingerly between two of its talons is a sealed envelope, which it presents to you wordlessly and without meeting your gaze.
After a quick but thorough inspection for trickery, you break the seal (a coat of arms bearing six fleurs-de-lis horizontally divided by a crenelated line).
The letter reads:
"To the Very Reverend Anethra Katal of the Most Unholy Sisterhood of the Hoofed Lady,
It has come to my attention that You have recently arrived in our fair city in order to participate in the annual Breaching Festival. I have also been informed (by sources both physical and metaphysical) as to Your dilemma in regards to one Velaxios Jeggare, a late student of the Acadamae. Seeing as this is a matter where our interests rather fortuitously align, I humbly request Your presence at my office on the noon of this day to discuss a mutually beneficial arrangement.
Metaxas stands ready to serve as Your escort, should You require one.
Conditionally Yours,
~ Lord Toff of House Ornelos, Headmaster of the Acadamae"
As you finish reading, the devil—assumably Metaxas—hazards an inquisitive glance in your direction.
As you sit in your modest quarters in the Deathhead Vaults beneath the Longacre Building, sharpening your axe in rhythm to your morning rogations, you—rather surprisingly—hear a knock on the door. Security in the Vaults is quite high, and the Arbiters rarely allow visitors to the prison. As you cautiously open the door, before you stands an immaculately dressed courier in the livery of a noble house (a coat of arms bearing six fleurs-de-lis on a blue-and-white field, horizontally divided by a crenelated line). Without much in the way of ceremony, he presents you with a sealed envelope imprinted with the same heraldry.
Still keeping one eye on the messenger, you break the seal. The letter reads:
"To Chief Executioner Bayard (also known as 'the Axeman'),
Based on the derogative nature of some of your past statements regarding the Acadamae, you surely have concerns as to your recent invitation to this year's Breaching Festival. Should you be amenable, I would invite you to my office today at noon-time, so that I might alleviate some of your misgivings—and perhaps discuss a method for avoiding unnecessary loss of life during tomorrow's competition.
My footman stands ready to escort you to the premises, if necessary.
Sincerely Yours,
~ Lord Toff of House Ornelos, Headmaster of the Acadamae"
The liveried courier sketches a scant bow, patiently waiting for your response.
The city has not been quite as hellish as you might have thought, although the Korvosans' festive mood clashes with your sour mood. You have been staying with a distant cousin on your mother's side, a trader from the nearby Sky Citadel of Janderhoff, who is a semi-permanent resident of Korvosa. The guest accommodations are human-sized, though furnished and decorated in a dwarven style. There has been no further word from the accursed headmaster, until now: during your morning litanies in Torag's ever-lasting honour, you are interrupted by a knock on the window. One of the imps that haunts the skies flutters outside, its tiny face curled into a sneer. You grab you weapon and rush to the window, ready to crush the infernal pest, but it quickly departs, leaving on the sill a sealed envelope.
The seal bears the hall-marks of human nobility: a coat of arms bearing six fleurs-de-lis horizontally divided by a crenelated line. It looks eminently familiar—no doubt another letter of blackmail from the wizard. You open it and read:
"To the warrior Grymwold (also known as 'the Shieldstorm'),
First, a word of assurance to pre-emptively soothe your no-doubt tormentous worries: the hammer is hidden and well-protected from those who might attempt to seize it with trickery or violence—including yourself. Your attendance in the Breaching Festival is still mandatory for its safe return. Additionally, I expect your presence in my office today at noon, so that I might give more detailed instructions on the proceedings.
If you fail to comply with my demands, you can be assured that no dwarven hands will ever find the hammer's grip.
I trust you will find your own way—the complex is rather hard to miss.
~ Headmaster Toff Ornelos of the Acadamae"
The two of you are sitting in the guest suite of ambassador Perishial Kalissreavil's airy manor-house, discussing your strategy for the Breaching over a light brunch. The embassy is built in a colonial Chelish style, with high arches and white-washed walls draped in ivy. The surrounding grounds have been overtaken by trees and underbrush so thick that one might think themselves deep in the middle of an ancient forest, rather than the trendy South Shore district of Korvosa. Nurtured by the magic of elven treesingers, the verdurous rampart shields the diplomatic enclave from the hustle and bustle of the city's human population.
Suddenly, there is ripple in the air: out of nowhere materialises a sealed envelope, which floats down and settles neatly in between a porcelain tea-pot and a platter of biscuits. After making sure it bears no harmful magicks, you break the seal (a coat of arms bearing six fleurs-de-lis horizontally divided by a crenelated line).
The letter reads:
"To the Master Diviner Viridel of Ashel'delore and Miss Laree An Everglow,
Your shared concern over the disappearance of young Wolfe is not unknown to me, and I, too, would prefer to rectify this situation—Master Elasaril-an is valued member of our staff, and his leave of absence is a great loss for the whole Acadamae. I would request your educated company in my office today at noon, in order to discuss your involvement in this year's Breaching Festival. There are ways in which I might ease your search.
Attached to this missive you will find the astral co-ordinates that will allow you to teleport directly to the lounge outside my office.
Collegially Yours,
~ Headmaster Toff Ornelos of the Acadamae"
Dark incense fills the air with a suitable mélange of brimstone, anise, and burning hair. When she'd been but six the stench had caused her to retch; now Anethra barely registers the smell. Before her lies a tome of Asmodean Disciplines, opened to the restricted Thirteenth Chapter. Its presence, along with the black candles sent to her by an enterprising young priest stationed at the Worldwound, is symbolic.
After all, she'd learned the entirety of the text by the time she was thirteen.
Yet still it brings her comfort to read the words as she mouths the infernal sounds, to move through established routine as she contemplates the challenges to come and the myriad inconveniences and indignities that had been her lot these past twenty-seven days.
What a trial, to have suffered from young love and made ridiculous oaths as a result.
Anethra murmurs her devotions, repeats the infernal contracts, her voice husky, her bearing dignified, poised, and her whole being radiating authority. No element of her appearance has been left to chance: everything from her ivory white hair which flows down to her waist to her small fortune in blood opals set in obsidian about her neck and on each finger to the peerless black gown of deepest night which clings to her frame has been carefully chosen to indelibly hammer home a few choice impressions: power, allure, maturity, and an ineffable devotion to the greatest devil of them all.
The stench of brimstone intensifies, and when she raises her dark-rimmed eyes to take in the hamatula, she feels a flutter of excitement and dread: had Asmodeus finally taken note of her, was she being contacted by a true power, were her trials finally at and end - ?
No.
Mouth pursing into a moue, she takes the envelop from the taloned fingers and efficiently slits it open. Removes the card, reads the message at a glance, and then sits back, considering the barbed devil. A frown mars her otherwise peerless visage.
What game was this? Pondering, and in no rush to provide the devil with a response, she casts her mind back to see what she knows of this Lord Toff.
The two women had just finished biscuits and half of their tea when the ripple happens to tear right through the middle of their conversation about the changes of spring and Laree's worries about the festival. These often are shared in harmony by her simulacrum who treats Laree like a sister, but more than that.
"Be cautious to read it. There surely have been magics made to react to reading, as you well know."
They discuss, fuss, and examine the note magically, Laree will excuse the Ambassador from the room for safety reasons and have Elann then read the letter aloud. She speaks out the contents of the note and then ends and hands it to her mistress.
"That was kind of him," Laree comments in regard to the sentiments. Her fingers run gently down the bent spine of the card to the decorations. "I suppose it's hardly surprising that we've been being observed coming up to these Festival days. Do you think we should trust it?" she asks Master Viridel."What if this is some sort of trap meant for those who attempt to enter?"
Something wicked this way comes, thought the seer as he opened his eyes, finishing his morning meditation.
A life of unyielding discipline does not come naturally to the elves, but it was a tight fit he was used to.
He breathes in the scented air, before waving his thin fingers in practiced and precise motions. The familiar feeling of the winds of magic suffusing his being, warding him from harm and causing him to rise with a mere thought. His golden hair rippled in the air with magic, before it settled on the sides of his angular calm face.
He reached for his staff, rising to his feet. A hawk's cry sounded from the outside, and a pearly-white hawk settled on the windowsill. Viridel extended his staff to his familiar, and Asniroth perched on it. News of the outside were celebratory.
"Devil-themed drinks?" Viridel thought. Try as he would to understand humans--he might never succeed.
The dark thoughts continued up until breakfast at the ambassador's table.
It nears...the wickedness. The smell of sulfur. The suffering.
Laree and her simulacrum, who joined them in the meal, were irrepressible. Viridel spoke lightly to the ambassador, smiling at Laree, as Asniroth nibbled on his feed--before he suddenly looks up at a spot in the air, focusing quietly at seemingly nothing. The hawk also stopped, still.
Suddenly, there is ripple in the air: out of nowhere materializes a sealed envelope, which floats down and settles neatly in between a porcelain tea-pot and a platter of biscuits.
"--and it finally came," he said aloud, continuing the line of his thought from before as the envelope settled. He did not open it himself, deep in contemplation.
"Be cautious to read it. There surely have been magics made to react to reading, as you well know."
Laree's question woke him up.
Pay attention to when people are expecting answers! he chided himself.
"Yes," Viridel said in a soft voice. "Yes, indeed. Well said, very astute. I will examine it, dear Laree."
Reaching out with his senses, Viridel saw nothing. He relaxed his hand--about to shut the table in a wall of magical force to absorb any blast. Before he could consider how to say it was fine, Elann read out the letter.
"That was kind of him. I suppose it's hardly surprising that we've been being observed coming up to these Festival days. Do you think we should trust it? What if this is some sort of trap meant for those who attempt to enter?"
Viridel considered the letter.
"If you desire it, I may scry upon him," Viridel says in his characteristic soft voice. "The headmaster might not appreciate it, however..."
He thinks for a moment, and then considers another spell. He reaches to grab a bit of incense.
Korvosans' festive mood clashes with Grymwold's sour mood. Although honestly it's been better than anticipated, not a sighting of one single devil.
Grym rises early, an hour before sunrise and props his mirror bright shield against the wall and sets a candle in front of it and concentrates on the flame flickering and reflecting off of Torag's holy symbol in the center of his shield.
He learned this meditative prayer technique during his time in the Sacred Mountain Monastery. First centering himself and then moving through a set ritual movements preparing for the coming day.
Sweat has barely begun to sheen across his brow when a knock on the window interrupts him. He grabs his shield and moves to the window seeing his first devil since entering the city. A little one, but a devil nonetheless. The imp flits away before Grym can give it the greeting it deserves.
The letter is no surprise to him. He did not expect the terms or tone of the deal to get any fairer or better, not when dealing with a Chelaxian mage. But the most important part of the agreement is still there. And Grym intends to fulfill his part of the deal and afterwards will make sure the mage fulfills his.
With plenty of time before noon a good hearty breakfast seems the best way to prepare for the big day. With a full belly Grym makes his way to the meeting with the Headmaster.
As he finishes scanning the letter, Bayard nods once. Turning to the footman, he makes a dismissive motion and says "I know the way. Tell your master I am coming." He then returns to his morning routines. There is plenty of time before he must leave for the Academae. The short walk is hardly burdensome.
Later on, when all is ready, he leaves the Longacre and heads southwest to the Academae. The unusual, if not unknown, sight of the big half-orc, clad head to toe in black armor and tabard, draws a few onlookers. Some children point and stare. Adults whisper, wondering what foul crime might require the axeman to come and get him, rather than waiting for the criminal to be brought to him. Bayard ignores them all. They are a minor annoyance, and what he is doing is not their business anyway. When he reaches the Academae gates, he presents the letter. "I am expected."
With a soft voice, the alchemist interjects with a vague gesture, "naturally, you have something in mind. Whatever it is, I have no qualms, as long as it is not too much trouble for you. I do hope this will not disrupt our brunch with the Ambassador." Laree will kindly take the letter from her Simulacrum and will scan it quickly, "The Headmaster didn't say to come right away...yes, see here, he asks for us at noon. That's what I thought I heard." "We can finish discussing this upcoming trial then. The Ambassador's insight is valuable, and the biscuits are delicious..."
Elann comments just then, strangely breaking in just as Laree's thoughts seemed to conclude, "Mistress Laree, you have no fixed engagements."
Laree will give a nod to Elann and will look with curious eyes to see what her old elven friend will do here.
Viridel contemplates their approach.
"Very well. Let us answer his invitation at noon. I can take us there when you are ready," he says slowly. He still looks at the invitation. "Once again I have questions that are beyond my own ability to answer."
He looks up after a moment, giving a small smile. "Let us be straight with the headmaster, and hope he will be straight with us in return."
Viridel turns to Ambassador Kalissreavil (when he returns). "What do you think, Ambassador? This might be my first true visit to the Academae."
Headmaster Toff Ornelos has been in his current position for almost three decades, before which he served as the Dean of Conjuration. This is not an unusual career path, since a prospective headmaster must call and bind a powerful devil (at least a cornugon) to apply, which privileges conjurers. Ornelos famously managed to subjugate a pit fiend, cementing his reputation as a master diabolist. He is a highly regarded arcane researcher whose role as the head of Acadamae has secured his fame not only in Varisia and Cheliax, but amongst mages throughout the Inner Sea. He is also known for having defeated 17 renowned wizards in spell duels.
Aside from being the headmaster of the Acadamae, Lord Toff is also the patriarch of House Ornelos, an old and prosperous family of Chelaxian aristocrats. They are one of the so-called "Five Great Houses" of Korvosa's high nobility (alongside the Arkonas, Jeggares, Leroungs, and Zenderholms). In addition to effectively controlling the Acadamae, the family keeps at least two advisors at the ear of the king. The influence they exert does not end at the throne, however, as Ornelos scions are scattered amongst all the city's most powerful institutions. Like many of his predecessors, the headmaster is a descendant (more specifically a grand-nephew) of the Acadamae's founder, Lord Volshyenek Ornelos. Also known as "the Immortal Lord," the legendarily long-lived warmage was an important figure in Korvosa's early colonial history. Lord Volshyenek relocated his family's holdings to Varisia in 4441 AR, helped win many victories against the Shoanti tribes, and continued to be an important figure in local politics all the way until his death in 4607 AR. He is said to have finally perished during a summoning ritual gone awry.
House Ornelos has so far resisted conversion to outright devil-worship, the Acadamae's infernal shift notwithstanding, and it remains loyal to both Korvosa and Cheliax (mostly in that order).
Despite his undisputed mastery of the arcane, Toff Ornelos is not well-regarded as a university administrator. The hierarchy of the Acadamae is entirely autocratic: once appointed, the headmaster serves for life, which secures their absolute rule until they die or decide to abdicate their position. While some of Ornelos' predecessors delegated their responsibilities and prudently shared their power with the deans of each school, he rules with an iron fist: the current headmaster retains an unprecedented amount of authority and permits the deans only minimal oversight of their students. He is said to be arrogant and prideful, and is often described as micromanagerial and tyrannical to the point of pettiness, if not outright cold-hearted and cruel. Aside from more procedural oppression, he is known to have personally crippled or maimed more than two score apprentices and underlings for various faults.
Certain anonymous observers within the college have questioned the authenticity of Toff Ornelos' test for headmastery. Only in silent whispers under the most scrupulous magical protections they dare to opine on whether his famous calling and binding of a pit fiend were somehow rigged...
The Acadamae sits perched upon Citadel Hill, like a darkly gleaming jewel on top of the tiered crown that is the wealthy Heights district. You pass many luxurious (if cramped) townhouses, trendy coffee shops and speciality boutiques, all cast in the shadow of the infernal university's dark, looming walls.
Bayard is the first to arrive. There is no one manning the gateway or the walls, but at his call, the heavy darkwood gates swing open, seemingly without any mechanism to facilitate their movement. On the other side awaits a squad of tieflings. They are dressed in black armour, not exactly a uniform (as these range from boiled leather to mail to plate; their armaments are similarly varied), though each bears a red badge of the university's coat of arms on their breast: a red crowned portcullis below an arch of seven red stars, both set below a larger red star, all on a black field. The arms are supported by two imps, and surmounted by a red crystal ball.
Grymwold, less used to the local topography, arrives just as Bayard is being processed. At first, the dwarf thinks the ominously armoured half-orc might be one the Hellknights that so infamously oppress the people of Cheliax, but the dove-on-axe depicted on his shield does not seem appropriately devilish . Both of you are ushered in before the gates swing jealously shut, as if eager to protect the Acadamae's secrets.
The guards do check your invitations, but this mostly seems like a formality—they appear to have been expecting your arrival. You are escorted towards Ornelos Hall . Visibly the oldest building in sight, it presently serves as the administrative centre for the college, where meetings among senior faculty are held, records are stored, and interviews with prospective students are conducted. It is rather unlike the spiky, gargoyle-laden outer rampart and the grand Hall of Summoning that dominates the grounds, which are built in the oppressively gothic neo-Chelaxian style: Ornelos Hall is a high-arched, airy building with white-washed walls, much like the colonial mansions that dot the shore of the Jeggare River.
Passing students and faculty—dressed in their cream-colored robes worn under black-and-red cloaks—look at you with varying degrees of curiosity and hostility, clearly busy with preparations for tomorrow's festival, in addition to their usual chores. Finally, the tieflings leave you in a spacious lounge, its walls covered in heavy crimson hangings and paintings of past headmasters. There are soft couches and armchairs, along with tables laden with refreshments (wine and dried fruits).
"The headmaster will be with you," rasps one of the horned guards, "once all the guests have arrived."
The ambassador calmly vacates the room as requested. He does have a bit of wizardly training himself, though he is quick to admit he is more of a dilettante than an expert. When you bid him to return, he assumes his seat at the table with the tranquility of an experienced diplomat—he is more than used to strange interruptions at social events. Befitting his reputation as a ladies' man, the graceful elf's attire is somewhat rakish, with a plunging neck-line and outlandishly pointed poulaines, though not quite so garish as to be in poor taste. His eyes are a solid green and his yellow hair is worn on a loose braid at the back.
"I have met the headmaster several times," Perishial muses in answer to Viridel's query, "though only briefly and on formal occasions. His academic work is, as far as I can tell, justifiably renowned. One cannot, however, ignore some of the more... outré... rumours about the man. The institution he runs is built on cruelty, and he would not be in his position without being, at the very least, inured to such casual viciousness..."
He raps his delicate fingers on the table, looking thoughtfully out the window in the general direction of the Acadamae. "A trap? Probably not, though I would still advise caution. You can usually trust a diabolist to keep their word, but you must be ever careful not to promise too much."
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Anethra sits back on her heels as she taps the letter on her chin. Once her habit had been to tap such missives on her lips, but an early case of poisoning had cured her of such thoughtless indiscretions.
"Toff Ornelos," she murmurs to herself, as if testing the name on the tip of her tongue. "Such an obscenely delightful reputation. I wonder."
Eyeing the hamatula, she sighs and tosses the missive aside, a flexion of her will causing it to burst into flames and ash before it hits the floor. She then reaches into a pouch and draws forth a slender gold token fashioned with Asmodeus' symbol upon one face and the emblem of Thrune upon the other. This she places neatly upon the altar with a distinct click, then once more sinks back upon her heels and raises both hands.
Her voice, as she intones, deepens, throbs with power, and seems to resonate beyond the mortal confines of the chamber.
"I call upon the great king of the infernal realm,
I call upon the great red stream of infernal energy,
The creator of the stars, planets, and all mortal things,
The king of hierarchy,
He whose legions feed justly on the sins and weakness of their lessers,
Hear me oh master and grand demon of protection,
He whose word is is both truth and law;
I beseech your aid, great lord Asmodeus,
He who signs the ultimate contract,
He who protects the law,
He who disdains the craven,
He who lusts for rightly won power,
I call you great king Asmodeus,
And ask that you answer one question:
Will meeting with Toff Ornelos increase the odds of my locating the remains of Velaxios Jeggare?"
Grym's certainly no religious scholar and doesn't recognize the dove on axe depicted on the large man's shield. But it doesn't look devilish which piques the dwarf's curiosity. he's a biggun alright, can't place that symbol though
Grym keeps silent while being escorted through the complex but once the guards leave the two warriors alone in the lounge he doesn't waste anytime in asking the silent hulk mind if I ask about the symbol on your shield? I'm not familiar with it.
Viridel considers his options, and takes a sip of coffee. Considering what he was about to do, he needed to focus as much as he could.
He isolated one bean of coffee with a precise forefinger, and pressed on it, weaving the magic around him. The bean disappeared in a small flash of green-blue fire, as caffeine surged through his being.
He knew.
"What a foul specimen," Viridel says, twisting his mouth. "Our headmaster employs a pit fiend--a dangerous being to say the least--whether the binding is true or merely a ploy is beyond my knowledge."
He then shares everything he knows with Everglow over his coffee.
"I heard of his predecessor, Volshyenek Ornelos's death a hundred years ago. At least--supposed death. A century came and went and the Academae stands on the same foundations, and it is my hope that this is not a circle about to close." he says, then puts down his cup. "This year's test is highly irregular, Laree. It is irregular for people of our caliber to join, and irregular for him to invite us this way. It is my hope that we are the right people in the right time, or that the Divine sends our way some excellent allies..."
"I have met the headmaster several times, though only briefly and on formal occasions. His academic work is, as far as I can tell, justifiably renowned. One cannot, however, ignore some of the more... outré... rumours about the man. The institution he runs is built on cruelty, and he would not be in his position without being, at the very least, inured to such casual viciousness...
"A trap? Probably not, though I would still advise caution. You can usually trust a diabolist to keep their word, but you must be ever careful not to promise too much."
Viridel nods, turning to Everglow.
"I see that we are likely to gain much from visiting the man--but be prepared as much as you can. We still have a few hours should you need time."
Laree has had little opposition to House Ornelos over her years involved with the arcane world, which is saying something considering the experiences she has had with mages who have become corrupted by evil. She has been fooled before.
As with Toff, however, she is one of those few who would see through the kind words of his letter. He is a tyrant. No doubt if they did not come, he would probably force their hand somehow. With his connections, it would be suicide not to show up. As Viridel explains the deviousness of the man, she coughs and answers, "We will definitely have to arrive on time then so as to not upset him."
Viridel will pick up on her tone. One that impresses seriousness. In her eyes, he will read that she is concerned about the visit. The reason she likely doesn't say anything verbally is that she is under suspicion he is scrying upon them even now. "Do you have the spell prepared for us to travel in such a manner? If not, we should probably leave earlier, but as to the other people joining, I will ask the Ambassador. Perhaps he will know? He seems to keep up with the gossip of the Breaching," she jests with a bit of a smile.
Once the Ambassador returns, Laree smiles welcomingly to the noble. He is a handsome man and she does her best to be formal and well seated in posture as a show of honor toward his invitation.
"Yes, as I've learned myself, Ambassador Kalissreavil...," she answers in regard to not promising too much. "...but thank you for the warning. I do have a tendency to promise far more of my heart and mind than is advised in such cases. But as to his viciousness, I am sure, Ambassador, that you as well must secure your seat against those who wish to take it from you. As a lifetime appointee as headmaster, I'm certain his occasional callousness has a degree of protection intended to keep himself from being uprooted by backstabbers. In any case, I hope whatever the man is like, by approaching him with respect and civility, he will return it in kind." She seeks to change the subject and asks, "Have you heard any rumors on the other applicants this year?"
"It is wise to guard one's tongue, but we are safe here," Viridel says softly. As a powerful diviner himself, he could see any sensors.
A strange thought passed over the elf's mind. Was his ability to sense such intrusions an unannounced reason why the ambassador always opened his home for the diviner?
At the last moment, he held the question (which might prove a little off-putting to the ambassador), and chose to assume.
But that was neither here nor there, he thinks. Viridel nods warmly at the half-elf's wisdom.
She grew up so fast, he thought affectionately.
"Yes, I have a way that may get us in quick and unseen," he said. He tutted at his white hawk, which flew up to perch on his staff again.
His chair moved back without a sound, and there he sat in mid-air, before lowering his legs to stand in a graceful motion. Back straight, he offered his hand to young Laree and her sister. His heightened senses were ready, his protective ward was present, his aerial enchantments were ready, and his contingency was yet active. His eyes, augmented with power, could see through the dark and see the normally unseen.
Perhaps he was ready. A ping of anxiety struck him suddenly, and a dark cloud passed over his calm countenance. So many things can go wrong. The signs were not clear. Was he ready?
He then noticed Laree and her sister.
I'm not about to lose them, too. No, I am ready.
"Steel yourself and touch my hand when you ready."
[dice=know religion]1d20+3
Grym's certainly no religious scholar and doesn't recognize the dove on axe depicted on the large man's shield. But it doesn't look devilish which piques the dwarf's curiosity. he's a biggun alright, can't place that symbol though
Grym keeps silent while being escorted through the complex but once the guards leave the two warriors alone in the lounge he doesn't waste anytime in asking the silent hulk mind if I ask about the symbol on your shield? I'm not familiar with it.
Bayard turns to Grym. ”Too few do. This” he says, holding the shield up a bit more, ”is the holy symbol of my lord Damerrich, the Empyreal Lord of executions and responsibility. As Korvosa’s Chief Executioner, I have the honor and burden of serving him in fulfilling my duties to the city.”
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huh...Never heard'o him. No offense, but there's so many o those Empyreal Lords it's hard ta keep track of who's who, what's what. he says with a friendly laugh.
Executioner seems like a pretty grim vocation. But if my heads gotta get chopped I'd rather have it done by a follower of an Empyreal Lord than an Asmodean who'd probably enjoy it
this guy's probably not the life of the party at a tavern .... In fact, it's almost impossible to picture this guy at a tavern. Grym chuckles mentally thinking of a crowded boisterous tavern with loud conversations and music...all coming to a screeching silence when this guy walks through the door.
Grym keeps that thought to himself not wanting to offend the Executioner
My name's Grymwold but everyone calls me Grym. Looks like the Headmaster roped both of us into his schemes?
There is a slight tremor—or at least the sensation of a tremor—and the smell of incense takes on an even more oppressive pungency. From below your feet rings a voice as haughty as the highest lord and callous as the cruellest tyrant, speaking with all the authoritative wisdom of a legion of shackled philosopher-kings: "Verily, the puppet shall guide thee well; yet beware, lest thy soul be ensnared in the strings."
Viridel is reasonably certain there are no magical sensors in the room at this very moment, though he is not entirely sure there were none in the recent past—even when they are visible, such manifestations are not always conspicuous. Then again, seeing as Ornelos seems to know the diviner by reputation, it would make sense for him to use methods other than scrying.
The ambassador nods briefly at Viridel's assurance of safety, though it is hard to read in his reaction anything beyond a flash of genuine appreciation. He does not appear overly concerned about being spied on.
"Yes, as I've learned myself, Ambassador Kalissreavil...," she answers in regard to not promising too much. "...but thank you for the warning. I do have a tendency to promise far more of my heart and mind than is advised in such cases. But as to his viciousness, I am sure, Ambassador, that you as well must secure your seat against those who wish to take it from you. As a lifetime appointee as headmaster, I'm certain his occasional callousness has a degree of protection intended to keep himself from being uprooted by backstabbers. In any case, I hope whatever the man is like, by approaching him with respect and civility, he will return it in kind." She seeks to change the subject and asks, "Have you heard any rumors on the other applicants this year?"
"I certainly do not envy his position," says Perishial, tactful as ever. "As for the identities of this year's competitors... well, aside from yourselves, I heard Ornelos approached Korvosa's chief executioner as well—a rather formidable man, as I understand. The Cerulean Society has been approached as normal, so expect a scoundrel or two. It is certainly unusual for the Acadamae to include so many outsiders. People have been speculating as to whether this is some internal power struggle, since the invitations normally come from the Dean of Abjuration, not the headmaster… but again, that is only conjecture."
While waiting for a response Grym evaluates the of man's equipment. Adamantine plate,obviously magical blade. this guy's an accomplished warrior of an Empyreal Lord. And yet an executioner .
this guy's seen some shit Grym thinks sympathetically...knowing the type and deciding not to push
"Well, naturally, we will defer to your great wisdom in matters such as these, Ambassador. While we are on the subject of conjecture, I know something of infernal contracts as well. As you stated Viridel, the headmaster is well connected in such manners. If it is not a matter of power struggles or politics, perhaps there is something within an infernal deal that is putting the headmaster in a difficult spot, and perhaps he can't interfere directly but wishes to? Involving outsiders may be his way around this...Now my interest is piqued, but ultimately I don't care, as long as he can give some insight into what happened to my dear brother."
Both Elann and Laree seem to share a burdened look upon their faces in slightly different ways, but it is clear there is emotion when brought before the mind of even her simulacrum. As though to distract herself, she will change the subject:
"Enough of this. Now you must tell me the fashions you saw in the west, as well as the productions and plays."
They can discuss lighter things until the coming time of their arrival with the headmaster. As they kindly depart the Ambassador, she will begin to drink various infusions and when finished, will nod to Viridel that she is ready. Both she and Elann will touch his hand at the same time.
Anethra bows her head in reverence as the voice imparts its wisdom; for all her jaded cynicism and a lifetime spent being disappointed by others and the world, contact with her great lord was still an invariable way to feel genuine awe.
When the incense returns to its normal pungency and the air around her has stilled, she inhales briskly and rises to her feet, smoothing down her dress and fixing the hamatula with her stare.
"You are dismissed, Metaxas, and with my thanks. Return to your master and let him know I shall visit him shortly."
She leaves the altar, her footsteps echoing in the stone chamber with distinct clicks of her heels, her lips pursed in thought. Time to gather her belongings, her treasures, her instruments of power. This visit with Ornelos would prove both beneficial and perilous - she would not go unprepared.
The devil straightens its back with a sneer, and then disappears in a puff of sulfur.
Perishial continues to play the host, keeping the conversation flowing smoothly even when Viridel gets caught up in his thoughts. Once the sun begins to near its apex, the two of you make to leave. Although the ambassador has no need to see you to the door, he gets up nonetheless to shake both your hands and look you in the eye.
"Desna's luck be with you both," he says with an encouraging smile, "and may Calistria lend you her most wicked wiles. Look for me in the crowd—I have already cleared tomorrow's schedule in order to cheer you on."
Bayard and Grymwold spend a short while engaged in more-or-less awkward small talk under the painted glares of past headmasters—most of them are Chelaxians with a pronounced family resemblance, each depicted in the prime of their power. Not too long after, Anethra is escorted in by a pair of tiefling guards, whose attitude is noticeably more fawning in the woman's presence that it was in Bayard and Grymwold's. The heavily armoured warriors certainly seem a tad out of place in midst of the lounge's opulence, as compared to this newcomer. Some minutes after her entrance, near the exact moment of the meeting, three more persons materialise in the exact geometrical middle-point of the waiting room: a pair of female half-elves, close enough in appearance to be twin sisters, as well as a full-blooded elven man dressed robes and carrying a staff whose tip is presently occupied by a live hawk.
Almost immediately, as if they sensed the distant tolling of the midday bells in the Grand Cathedral of Pharasma, the red tapestries on the far wall slither and writhe aside on their own, revealing a set of double doors that had previously been hidden from sight. These swing open, likewise without a visible porters.
The headmaster's office is an austere, well-organised chamber furnished with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, display cabinets full of infernal artefacts, and artistic representations of hellish subjects in many different mediums. Glowing motes of red fire-light near the ceiling offer ample illumination while casting the farthest recesses of the room in seething gloom. At the back of the room rears a large oaken desk with legs carved in the shape of cloven hooves, behind which stands a high-backed chair padded with rich satin—more like a king's see than a scholar's bench, it quite dwarfs the man crouched upon it.
Toff Ornelos is, in many ways, a layman's archetype of a wizard: he is an old man—perhaps sixty or seventy years old—bent-backed and bony, with a long white beard and a balding pate. His sallow face is nearly skeletal, with gaunt cheeks and deeply-set dark eyes, further emphasised by a prominent hawk nose. In addition to the Acadamae's cream-coloured underrobes, he wears a sumptuous black-and-purple chasuble stitched with esoteric symbols, as well as a crimson stole to mark his rank.
The wizened conjurer stands to welcome his guests, leaning on a staff of ebony topped with an ivory skull. He offers a scant bow and motions graciously to six less imperious chairs which have been arrayed in a neat semi-circle opposite to the desk.
Once all of you are comfortably seated, Ornelos re-assumes his throne, steeples his fingers and speaks in a voice that resembles a rusty coffin-hinge:
"Welcome, and thank you for answering my... ah, late invitation. I will get straight to the point: entry in the Breaching Festival is traditionally reserved for only the absolute best and bravest of our students and a select few representatives of other Korvosan institutions. This year, however, we are forgoing tradition and expanding the invitations to skilled individuals from outside our usual pool of candidates, as well as tightening the parameters of our internal recruitment—in other words, we are looking for only the most qualified competitors available."
"That should explain why I am interested in all of your varied talents. But why this meeting, you might ask. Well, it has been a century and a half since the first and only winner of the Breaching Festival. People are, perhaps understandably, hesitant to partake in an unwinnable competition. There is no immediate danger of running out of participants, but the number and quality of our volunteers has been trending steadily downwards every year, even as the prize-money accrues. To speak frankly, I believe it is a time for a... let us call it a re-set. I am even willing to bend the rules in order to allow a team of allied competitors to co-operate as a single unit—whatever it takes to get a winner tomorrow."
The wizard leans back, his lips drawn into a thin, pale crescent—a smile looks near-alien on that grave visage. Moreover, there is a layer of condescension under the surface of his oily hospitality, which he is either unable or unwilling to hide. "You have questions, no doubt. I would be delighted to elaborate as needed..."
Grym sits patiently waiting for the others to speak. one always learns more from listening than talking
This thought is not the product of deep thought and self reflection. Mostly just a simple acceptance of Torags teachings.
While waiting for the others to chime in he assesses ready of the seated group. Obviously the Executioner and himself are the muscle. And Viridel of course is magical might as he expects the others are as well
Viridel huh... Quite a surprise. A VERY welcome one
Gryms sole acknowledgement of recognizing Viridel was a one eyed wink at the mage upon seeing him. No time to find out how he got roped into this as of yet. But Grym feels relieved to see a face he trusts. And even rarer, a mage he trusts.
Anethra sweeps into the room with an imperious mien, her dark gaze raking over both seated men before turning to consider the environs. She makes no move to sit; instead, she drifts to the hall's far end, her expression remote, forbidding, her gaze only turning away from the portraits when the trio teleports into the chamber.
Only then do her kohl-rimmed eyes narrow as she appraises the elf and half-elves; her scrutiny, however, is short lived - she soon returns her attention to the portraits, the corner of her lips quirking up in the slightest shadow of a smile as if the pompous grandeur of each previous headmaster serves only to amuse her.
When the curtains sweep back the doors open, she enters the chamber first, chin raised, ebon gown trailing after, looking for all the world like an infernal queen entering the demesne of a rival ruler. Taking the chair directly before the desk, she leans back and crosses one leg over the other knee, to study the headmaster as he speaks, her gaze piercing, the intensity of which causes the air before her to nearly shimmer with a heat haze.
not quite as diabolicaly confident as I expected Grym thinks... surprised to see a break in the mages armor
"How uncommonly civic-minded of you, Ornelos," purrs Anethra, her posture at ease, almost languid. "And what delicious irony. That you should desire to prove how feasible it is to best the Breaching Contest that you are willing to secretly bend the rules to do so."
Her expression hardens as her eyes narrow. "You know that far greater beings than myself find such 'rule bending' of contracts distasteful."
At the Ambassador's final well wishes, Laree will chuckle and nod.
Soon after, they materialize just as Viridel stated they would. The two ladies linger close to the elder and both will actually take his arms in theirs lightly, showing to the others that they are with him. Both women are beautiful in an odd sort of way. They are not glorious paragons of adoration or lust, but they are cute and simple, yet something about them is near flawless in their looks.
Laree will see the executioner Bayard. She is wearing a much more concealed outfit now, but her smile is unmistakable, and only she of the two of the women seem to recognize him as the one she met with concerning her brother. She actually will lean to Laree and whisper, "That is the executioner..."
Both straighten up as the tapestries part ways and the doors swing open for their entrance. The ladies will enter with Viridel and observe the room with curiosity. Mostly their eyes search his shelves for certain books and for certain words along the spines of them. Perhaps they want some information he has? If it were not for Toff leaning there on his staff, they would look longer. Both welcome him with proper manners.
Both women listen to his explanation as to why they are there. Whether they believe it is another matter.
Both Laree and Elann look to the other woman as she speaks. Her manner of address is unusual. Perhaps she is taking a casual route in speaking to the Headmaster.
"Esteemed Headmaster," begins Laree, "There is no doubt in our mind your continued involvement with this grand school and its survivability. Was there anything else that provoked this decision, outside of popularity?"
"Desna's luck be with you both, and may Calistria lend you her most wicked wiles. Look for me in the crowd—I have already cleared tomorrow's schedule in order to cheer you on."
Viridel smiles at the ambassador, shaking his hand. "It is my hope we will not need it, ambassador. We will see you again."
Hope...
As the two held onto him, he brandished his staff once, speaking the words of power.
"Teshuel feer teague tel' Ath-a-Faer, e tared Alseta"
They were there once. Viridel closed his eyes. Now they were not.
Some minutes after her entrance, near the exact moment of the meeting, three more persons materialise in the exact geometrical middle-point of the waiting room: a pair of female half-elves, close enough in appearance to be twin sisters, as well as a full-blooded elven man dressed robes and carrying a staff whose tip is presently occupied by a live hawk.
Viridel opened his eyes. They have arrived.
Asniroth screeched, spreading his wings, letting his cry echo through the dark halls.Almost immediately, as if they sensed the distant tolling of the midday bells in the Grand Cathedral of Pharasma, the red tapestries on the far wall slither and writhe aside on their own, revealing a set of double doors that had previously been hidden from sight. These swing open, likewise without a visible porters.
"Keep it down, Asniroth," Viridel said quietly, stroking the hawk, as Laree and Elann detached from him and observed the opulent hall. He looked away from the bird, and his vision was instantly assaulted by the veritable current of unseen servants. Every master and student of the school must've bound one such force. This decadence...even in magical terms was so out of place for him that he was briefly stunned.
This foul hold of unrestrained sorcery...caused much loss that was tragic--more than one student and acquaintance disappeared in these black halls--last of it was Wolfe.It also caused much gain that is questionable--churning out devil binders who brought the world two steps closer to Hell for every student.
When he turned to observe the rest, he noticed the two armored warriors--a mysterious mass of steel that bore an axe with the symbol of...
Interesting, Viridel observed. A knight of Damerrich--this must be...
"That is the executioner..."
Yes...Korvosa's mysterious executioner, invited to the Breaching?
He then noticed the other figure--bearing a mirror shield and a giant beard a dwarf would be proud to have.
Grym? he wondered, as the dwarf noticed him, giving him a one-eyed wink. Viridel could not help a small smile.
With such an honorable ally, I am surely ready.
Not taken seriously by his elven peers for his respect for dwarf-kin and humankind, Viridel felt comfortable with their mission.
He almost did not notice the last figure escorted by the tieflings--a brief glimpse of red and black made him feel...on edge.
And a Priestess of the Devil. What a strange crew we are.
Viridel enters last, drifting into the office.
Toff looked so much like his predecessors that it was disconcerting to the long-lived races. Humans truly are immortal in their own way.
"Welcome, and thank you for answering my... ah, late invitation. I will get straight to the point: entry in the Breaching Festival is traditionally reserved for only the absolute best and bravest of our students and a select few representatives of other Korvosan institutions. This year, however, we are forgoing tradition and expanding the invitations to skilled individuals from outside our usual pool of candidates, as well as tightening the parameters of our internal recruitment—in other words, we are looking for only the most qualified competitors available."
"That should explain why I am interested in all of your varied talents. But why this meeting, you might ask. Well, it has been a century and a half since the first and only winner of the Breaching Festival. People are, perhaps understandably, hesitant to partake in an unwinnable competition. There is no immediate danger of running out of participants, but the number and quality of our volunteers has been trending steadily downwards every year, even as the prize-money accrues. To speak frankly, I believe it is a time for a... let us call it a re-set. I am even willing to bend the rules in order to allow a team of allied competitors to co-operate as a single unit—whatever it takes to get a winner tomorrow."
Viridel said nothing, observing the office. The priestess spoke truly; it was not feasible for the headmaster to 'change the rules', something diabolists were cautious of doing, for a nebulous concept such as 'increasing the quality of volunteers'.
"How uncommonly civic-minded of you, Ornelos," purrs Anethra, her posture at ease, almost languid. "And what delicious irony. That you should desire to prove how feasible it is to best the Breaching Contest that you are willing to secretly bend the rules to do so."
Her expression hardens as her eyes narrow. "You know that far greater beings than myself find such 'rule bending' of contracts distasteful."
Ornelos' nostrils flare at the challenge, but he mostly retains control of his temper. "I do not make such decisions lightly, Sister Anethra, but I am the headmaster: the rules are exactly as I dictate. Here at the Acadamae, we study Hell, learn to control it, and where appropriate, emulate some of its better qualities—we are not thrall to it. Traditions are of foremost importance, but if they have repeatedly proven defective, it must, by necessity, be time for innovation."
The wizard scoffs and leans back in his chair, once again calm and composed.
"The Hall of Wards is breachable," he insists, "with the right combination of skill and motivation. Before I make adjustments, this hypothesis must needs be proven, or else the integrity of the trial is lost. If—when—you manage to win, perhaps we shall make the Breaching a team competition entirely."
"Esteemed Headmaster," begins Laree, "There is no doubt in our mind your continued involvement with this grand school and its survivability. Was there anything else that provoked this decision, outside of popularity?"
The headmaster strokes his beard thoughtfully, somewhat placated by Laree's respectful tone.
"Legacy," he finally says, with the reluctance of one who is unused to admitting weakness. "I am old, as you can plainly see, and I have no methods at my disposal for lengthening my mortal existence—none that I wish to utilise, at least. My tenure is nearing its end, and there are matters I should wish to attend before then. I would rather be remembered as the headmaster who fixed this issue while it was still manageable, rather than the one let it continue unabated."
Quite frankly, the alchemist didn't expect Ornelos to answer in such an open manner. She expected his answer to be concealed behind layers of guesswork and hints to the truth. His blatant openness is refreshing to Laree.
"Legacy is an important aspiration to have. I must admit, I would love the honor of besting your protections and wards with skill and motivation...rather than on a technicality...but that is not why I am here. Is there any information you can give that would help me understand what happened to my brother?"
Earlier...
As they await the others, Bayard nods to the dwarven warrior. "We shall see." He is a crafty one, that's certain. But I have no intention of being roped into anything. If I take part, I do so of my own free will. he thinks to himself, unwilling to voice such thoughts in a space the Headmaster undoubtedly has ears in.
He casts a discerning eye over the others as the arrive, nodding briefly to those he knows. He narrows his eyes when Anethra arrives An Asmodean? Fitting, in this place of infernal pacts and dabbling, I suppose.
After the Headmaster explains himself, Bayard frowns beneath his hood. I have long suspected there is a foulness at this place's core. But I would not expect them to so openly invite me into it. Or not invite, precisely. Challenge me to discover it. He is either very confident or very foolish. Perhaps both, but one should never expect that an accomplished wizard is a fool. Perhaps that is the source of his nervousness. "Why would we want to participate in your...game? Certainly, there are those who wish to learn things the Academae might want to keep hidden, but you have offered not even the suggestion that such information might be found inside. You mentioned prize-money, and I suppose that is all the motivation some need. What else? Why spend the valuable coin of our time? Not all of us have centuries to use."
"Not all of us have centuries to use."
Viridel seems to look away at nothing for a spell, and then turns his clear blue eyes to the headmaster.
How strangely does Man age..."Master Conjurerer," Viridel speaks softly, choosing the same honorific bestowed upon him in the letter. "I am pleased to be in your presence--differences in our magical disciplines notwithstanding. You surely do your ancestors great honor by your signature deed--binding a most powerful and frightful being to your Will, which must have been...more than a little taxing."
He pauses, looking upon the dim lights of the office. "Young Wolfe, as well as several other acquaintances of mine have disappeared in your halls. Master Everglow is most distraught, and we have received your letter with the utmost appreciation. How may we be better prepared for what lies before us--and to recover who we have lost?"
"Master Conjurerer," Viridel speaks softly, choosing the same honorific bestowed upon him in the letter. "I am pleased to be in your presence--differences in our magical disciplines notwithstanding. You surely do your ancestors great honor by your signature deed--binding a most powerful and frightful being to your Will, which must have been...more than a little taxing."
Ornelos inclines his head in acknowledgement. His eyes narrow slightly, as if he was looking for a barb hidden amidst the flowery courtesy.
"Legacy is an important aspiration to have. I must admit, I would love the honor of besting your protections and wards with skill and motivation...rather than on a technicality...but that is not why I am here. Is there any information you can give that would help me understand what happened to my brother?"
He pauses, looking upon the dim lights of the office. "Young Wolfe, as well as several other acquaintances of mine have disappeared in your halls. Master Everglow is most distraught, and we have received your letter with the utmost appreciation. How may we be better prepared for what lies before us--and to recover who we have lost?"
The headmaster listens attentively to Laree's plea. He even tries on an expression of grandfatherly concern, though he comes across more like a doting undertaker.
"This is not the first time a contestant has disappeared," he admits, "although word of mouth has greatly exaggerated the prevalence of such occurrences—most participants never make it past the outer wards, and the causes of death for those who do are rather evident. However, we do not usually bother with investigations beyond the routine clean-up, and sometimes unidentified remains are found years after the fact. As this was the son of a faculty member, I ordered a more thorough search. Rather curiously, we found no trace of young Wolfe. Julaei Cangi, our Dean of Abjuration, has assured me that none of the Hall's protections, as deleterious as some of them might be, should result in such complete annihilation as to leave no hints whatsoever."
"My educated guess would be a freak accident: overlapping magical fields could have interfered with each other in an unexpected manner—as you surely know, proximate abjurations are especially prone to unstable energy fluctuations. The effects of such uncontrolled bursts, also known as wild magic, are not easy to predict: your brother could have been transported onto another plane of existence, or transmuted into a piece of furniture..."
He pauses and glances at Viridel. "Perhaps we have been too lax in our post-competition inspections. If there are clues as to Wolfe's fate... and those of others... they must lie within the Hall of Wards. With the assistance of a true augur, I am certain you will be able to discover what our divinatory dabbling has not. Should you find any malfunctioning protections, I would of course make sure to have them—and their incompetent caretakers—replaced."
After the Headmaster explains himself, Bayard frowns beneath his hood. "Why would we want to participate in your...game? Certainly, there are those who wish to learn things the Academae might want to keep hidden, but you have offered not even the suggestion that such information might be found inside. You mentioned prize-money, and I suppose that is all the motivation some need. What else? Why spend the valuable coin of our time? Not all of us have centuries to use."
Ornelos raises an eyebrow, his expression a mix of annoyance and amusement. "What do you stand to gain, aside from 153,000 gold sails and the adoration of an entire city? Well, perhaps for a noble soul such as yourself, righting an old wrong should suffice. The Breaching has claimed many, many lives along the years, and my intention is to make it into something less... wasteful. Surely you can see the good in that, Chief Executioner, even if we disagree on other matters. Whatever you might think of me, I am not the architect of this evil, but merely a custodian with a mind to do some long-overdue renovations."
The headmaster looks away and waves his hand dismissively. "But in the end, you are better judges of your own capabilities than I am. If any of you feel that my estimation of your chances are overly generous, then I will simply have to find other capable persons to make history tomorrow..."
Laree shifts uncomfortably as the doting undertaker mentions that her brother may be goo on the side of one of his walls that had to be cleaned up, and likely there was no effort to even find out if he was okay. A moment later, Elann looks to Laree, seems to think, and then shifts uncomfortably as well.
They both will settle as the elder man does finally show some concern over the possible disappearance of her brother and the lengths he has taken to find him.
"Let us hope we can discover the cause...and not be turned into armchairs ourselves."
If it were not concerning her brother, her statement would have been made in mirth. As it is, it is a dreadful statement as to his true, possible fate, as well as a possibility for themselves.
Her eyes travel to Ornelos as he waves his hand dismissively at the culmination of his statement. Her eyes then shoot to Bayard in almost desperation.
"I am sure each of us has a reason we are here individually. As it is, grand executioner, I would feel much safer knowing that you are with us. When I spoke to you before, you seemed a capable man."
While Laree speaks, Elann seems to be almost disconnected from the conversation as she was not there at the time that Laree had met with the man.
Having stated her opinion, Laree now looks to the headmaster, "Headmaster, would it be a breach of the rules to ask who prepared the abjurations and conjurations of this year's challenge?"
Perhaps it was a little shady of her to inquire as to the sculptor of their particular difficulties that lie ahead, but she isn't asking him what spells they had cast. It is clear, she wants to at least get inside far enough to discover what happened, as Laree would never normally ask such a thing.
The priestess takes this time to examine her companions; her gaze lingers, probes, and interrogates each member of the assembled team, focusing, usually, on each of them as they speak.
Whether she's impressed is hard to tell.
"What, dear Ornelos, can you share of the trial's qualities? How effective are teleportation spells, attempts to scry, pass through walls, and so forth? Can you divulge any details of what we shall soon face, given your current loquacity?"
But this line of inquiry appears more an exercising in fishing than genuine interest - she doubts he'll reveal aught of real import. She seems content; in her mind, the words of her patron devil ring loudly, and though she ponders and doubts the integrity of the headmaster, she feels no compunction to needle him further, or seek to force a confession.
Not enough leverage, and in truth, this development is in accordance with her own needs.
While the others converse, she takes a moment to whisper a words of power under her breath, her fingers rising to curve and curl as she forms symbols of power. She clearly doesn't care if the others notice.
Thus she sits, and waits, languorous and placid, watching and waiting as the meeting draws to its natural conclusion.
"My educated guess would be a freak accident: overlapping magical fields could have interfered with each other in an unexpected manner—as you surely know, proximate abjurations are especially prone to unstable energy fluctuations. The effects of such uncontrolled bursts, also known as wild magic, are not easy to predict: your brother could have been transported onto another plane of existence, or transmuted into a piece of furniture...
"Do you suspect a particular region, or could this anomalous field be anywhere?" Viridel asked. The Headmaster offered help...this was his opportunity.
Yet again--this anxiousness was worrying. Could there be something else?
Grymwold sits back at ease in the chair but listening intently as the spellcasters ask their questions, confident that they know better than he what line of inquiry will be best in teasing out any reluctant information from the headmaster.
Having stated her opinion, Laree now looks to the headmaster, "Headmaster, would it be a breach of the rules to ask who prepared the abjurations and conjurations of this year's challenge?"
"That is hardly a secret," deems Ornelos. "The hands-on preparations are the responsibility of the Dean of Abjuration, who draws up proposals and handpicks a team of final-year students and graduate-level apprentices to assist in maintaining or replacing old wards, as well as devising new ones. Naturally, everything has to go through my scrutiny first."
"What, dear Ornelos, can you share of the trial's qualities? How effective are teleportation spells, attempts to scry, pass through walls, and so forth? Can you divulge any details of what we shall soon face, given your current loquacity?"
"Hum..." The headmaster rubs the bridge of his nose, eyeing Anethra as if he was conversing with an unusually eloquent viper. "Generally speaking, if a simple dimension door or an ethereal jaunt would be enough, then what would be the point of having a contest in the first place? While I feel that divulging this year's preparations would be rather unsportsmanlike, nothing is stopping me from expounding on some earlier trends: the Hall of Wards has previously housed all manner of magical traps, but particularly those that summon extraplanar creatures, as well as various glyphs and runes. Of course, the former could be dealt with through banishment or simple force of arms, but the latter is harder to counteract—by the time you see a symbol of death, it might already be too late. Master Viridel might have answers to such puzzles of perception..."
Ornelos leans in conspiratorially, his beard sweeping across the desk like a white besom. "There is another, often overlooked aspect of the competition, which might work to your advantage: the key-lights. In addition to using magical or mechanical means to forcibly penetrate the outer wards, they can also be safely bypassed with specially prepared devices hidden in each of the other Halls. This shortcut was devised a while back to make the competition more interesting, and to include the other schools besides abjuration in the preparations. Of course, it follows that the key-lights are heavily defended by guardians and traps of their own, each of them hand-crafted by the other deans and their chosen pupils. This unpredictability means that competitors rarely opt to chase the key-lights, and those who do tend to perish. However, seeing as yours would be a co-operative effort, going after them should be the most expedient choice. There are plenty of challenges waiting inside the Hall of Wards, so why expend your resources before the actual trial?"
He leans back and reaches out with his gnarled fingers, calling down one of the motes of light illuminating the chamber. It flickers and changes shade in his palm, going from red to orange to yellow to green to cyan to blue to violet. "Each of you would need your own key-light, but this would also guarantee you are not separated on entry. The fact that co-operation has not been allowed thus far does not mean the abjurers have not prepared for this eventuality..."
While the others converse, she takes a moment to whisper a words of power under her breath, her fingers rising to curve and curl as she forms symbols of power. She clearly doesn't care if the others notice.
"Do you suspect a particular region, or could this anomalous field be anywhere?" Viridel asked. The Headmaster offered help...this was his opportunity.
The headmaster ruminates for a moment, the hollows of his face cast into ever deeper gloom by the changing light. "While reading the investigation reports, I did notice a few places with larger-than-average concentrations of abjurations, but I must conclude that divulging further specifics would go against the spirit of this experiment. I trust you will be able to see where the auras overlap—besides, such fluctuations usually have a visual component, as well."
Yet again--this anxiousness was worrying. Could there be something else?
Viridel reflects on this.
"There is another, often overlooked aspect of the competition, which might work to your advantage: the key-lights. In addition to using magical or mechanical means to forcibly penetrate the outer wards, they can also be safely bypassed with specially prepared devices hidden in each of the other Halls. This shortcut was devised a while back to make the competition more interesting, and to include the other schools besides abjuration in the preparations."
"Would it not be wicked," Viridel asks quietly, studying the headmaster intently for his reaction, blue eyes meeting dark. "For the key-lights to be not only bothersome tools that may or may not be helpful--but verily, be the Key to the Breaching?"
If the key-lights were ignored for being inconvenient, perhaps such was
a test as well. Disregarding or misusing the tools you were given is a grave (and often fatal) mistake in wizardry--regardless of what discipline you followed.
Bayard has little more to say so far, though he nods when Laree refers to him as capable. ”I suspect we all are capable in our own ways. Though whether any of these wards can be hacked through with an axe, I rather doubt...”
Both Laree and Elann smile at Bayard's doubt. Laree openly states, "Well, certainly an axe would fly through a summoned creature's head more readily than our flasks would."
The response is simple, but it is clear that from Laree's tone, she is more at peace having the half-orc there.
She now looks to the Headmaster, who has explained everything in detail as much as possible.
"You have been rather forthcoming with information and you did not have to be. For that, we thank you. I have no doubt we will all do our best..." "or die trying," she thinks. "Is there anything we must do in preparation for the ceremony tomorrow beyond just preparing ourselves for the challenge ahead?"
Bayard has little more to say so far, though he nods when Laree refers to him as capable. ”I suspect we all are capable in our own ways. Though whether any of these wards can be hacked through with an axe, I rather doubt...”
speak for yourself big guy Grym says to himself thinking of the many times he's used Torags blessings to cut through foul magics (Shatterspell). Also thinking that may be necessary in the Breaching tomorrow
"Would it not be wicked," Viridel asks quietly, studying the headmaster intently for his reaction, blue eyes meeting dark. "For the key-lights to be not only bothersome tools that may or may not be helpful--but verily, be the Key to the Breaching?"
"There are risks worth taking," Ornelos muses with a self-satisfied mien. "Calculated risks, especially so."
Bayard has little more to say so far, though he nods when Laree refers to him as capable. ”I suspect we all are capable in our own ways. Though whether any of these wards can be hacked through with an axe, I rather doubt...”
The conjurer lets out a chuckle, though without context one might be hard-pressed to distinguish it from a wheezing cough.
"I, too, have my doubts," he notes dryly, "as to the efficacy of such a plan of action. However, there was a considerable amount of research in order to narrow all possible candidates to those now sat in this room. I have chosen all of you precisely for variety in talent. Where brute force comes to naught, Chief Executioner, you can look to your companions for assistance. As they will look to you, when something needs to be judiciously decapitated."
Far less amusedly, he adds, "But make no mistake: your participation hinges on your agreement to my terms. Can I trust you to co-operate with those gathered here to ensure victory in tomorrow's Breaching? There is no need for contracts or solemn vows—a simple word of assurance will suffice."
"You have been rather forthcoming with information and you did not have to be. For that, we thank you. I have no doubt we will all do our best..." "or die trying," she thinks. "Is there anything we must do in preparation for the ceremony tomorrow beyond just preparing ourselves for the challenge ahead?"
The headmaster nods magnanimously. "I have taken the liberty of scheduling you a guided tour of the premises, which I would have you attend immediately after our meeting has concluded. This will include all the buildings on the school premises save for the Hall of Wards, which is currently undergoing rigorous preparations. Even a quick look-around should offer you a significant advantage in searching for the key-lights."
"But first..." Ornelos reaches into a desk drawer and pulls out a sheaf of documents. "...there is some paperwork to fill out: all contestants must sign forms that release the Acadamae of any liability for any misfortune suffered as a result of the contest. If you would..."
With a school-teacher's practiced hand he leafs through the sheets and pushes them over his desk one by one. As plainly shown by the blood-red ink and the pentagram seal on each form, they have been ratified by the Temple of Asmodeus, though—perhaps as a gesture of good will—Bayard's copy has instead been separately notarised by an Abadaran priest. Vials of ink and quills are provided as well, carried to you by invisible hands.
At the headmasters insisting, Laree looks over those present. Only two of these present were unknown to the two girls. Although they seem harmless enough, both of them know better than to think that. The headmaster chose them for their capabilities. Regardless, Laree nods in the hope it will help her secure information about her brother.
"I will agree."
The group will notice that Elann does not answer, as if Laree answers for her. The two have already spoken extensively about this and Elann is far more beneficial to have with her than with her father should Laree die.
As the documents come out, both Laree and Elann seem intrigued. They take up position together and mutter over various phrases.
The pair's scrutiny would make any Asmodean proud. Each of them comes to the conclusion that this is a work of art. There is no flaw, no loophole, no backdoor out of this contract. They are perfectly legitimate. Once again, only Laree signs the contract before encouraging the elder elf to sign as well.
"It is fine to sign."
Grym regards the Pentagram seal of Asmodeus with distaste and then reads over the contract. He will wait till Viridel has signed his own contract before walking over to him and says Once more into the Breach? an old joke between them that seems particularly appropriate here.
Grym makes sure this last bit is loud enough for everyone in the room to hear but still speaking directly to Viridel and can you show me where the reward clause is in this "contract" for completing this task? It just seems like a one-sided release of "Liability" I coulda missed it as I'm just a dumb "meatshield" or whatever you spellslingers like to call us but this thing seems pretty one-sided. We can't sue is written down here, but nothing about what we get for doing this.
Grym looks directly at the Headmaster I don't see anything about me Clan's Hammer. I'm thinkin an addendum may be needed before signin this "contract" otherwise it just looks like a release of liability. AKA you're trying ta screw us legal-wise
Ornelos shakes his head at Grymwold, his lips curled into a condescending sneer.
"A liability waiver is not a contract," he explains. "This is simply a precaution to shield the Acadamae from undue legal challenges—all contestants must undersign such a document in order to participate. I had assumed that our particular agreement would go more smoothly without written restraints, as people in my field are often unfairly distrusted in such matters, but if you would prefer to formalise our transaction, I must first contact my... lawyer."
The headmaster motions at Laree as she signs her form. "See? Perfectly reasonable."